Date: December 9, 1989 (Saturday).
Location: The Cooper Living Room.
Event: The Week of State.
I woke up expecting the throb.
For three weeks, my mornings had started with pain, stiffness, and the smell of menthol. I sat up in bed and reached down to grab the bag of frozen corn I'd strapped to my ankle with an Ace bandage the night before. The corn was mushy and lukewarm now—the poor man's cryotherapy.
I unwrapped the bandage. I rotated my right foot.
Nothing.
No sharp stab. No grinding. Just a little tightness, like a new leather boot that had finally broken in.
I stood up. I put my full weight on it. I bounced.
It held.
It wasn't just healed; it felt... upgraded. Since the "awakening," every time I recovered from a hit, I felt like I was growing into the physical template of a pro athlete a little faster. My legs felt springier. My twitch reflexes were sharper.
I walked to the kitchen. I didn't limp; I glided.
Mary was at the stove, frying bacon. She didn't turn around.
"Don't you run on that floor, Georgie," she warned. "I just waxed it. I don't want you slipping and breaking your neck before the biggest game of your life."
"I'm fine, Mom," I said, stealing a piece of bacon from the plate. "Actually... I'm better than fine."
I looked at the calendar on the fridge. STATE. One week. One game for immortality.
***
The War Room
The living room was dim, the air heavy with the scent of Dad's coffee and the low hum of the Zenith TV.
George Sr. wasn't celebrating the Lufkin win. He was staring at a grainier, black-and-white tape of our final opponent. He looked like a man trying to read a map in a foreign language.
"Vernon," George said, not looking up. "The Vernon Lions."
I sat on the arm of the couch. "What are we looking at? Are they giants?"
"No," George said. "They're average size. Average speed. But they're deep. They've got twenty-two starters who don't play both ways. We've got... well, we've got you and Tiny playing Iron Man."
He looked at me, his face weary.
"We're a miracle team, Georgie. We're a bunch of scrappy local kids and two stars. But Vernon? They're a factory. They haven't trailed in a game since September."
Sheldon was sitting on the floor, his graph paper spread across the coffee table. Dad had invited him in—actually invited him—and moved his own beer out of the way to give Sheldon room.
"Tell him, Shelly," George said gently.
Sheldon adjusted his glasses, looking at Dad with a rare bit of pride. Being asked to help with football usually involved getting yelled at. This time, he was the expert.
"The Vernon Lions utilize a Wing-T offense," Sheldon explained, using his 'Professor' voice. "It is a system of geometric precision and misdirection. And they do not make mistakes. Their variance is zero."
On the screen, Vernon was a metronome.
Snap. Fake. Handoff. Five yards.
Snap. Fake. Handoff. Six yards.
"There's gotta be a pattern, son," George urged, leaning forward. "Do they tip the pass? Does the guard lean before a pull?"
Sheldon sighed, tapping his pen against the notebook. "They don't need to hide it, Dad. They simply dare you to stop the math. And for fifteen games, no one has."
George sank back into his recliner. "You can't beat perfection."
"Not with statistics," Sheldon agreed quietly. "It is a closed loop."
***
The Family Code
The front door swung open and Missy walked in, clutching a Dr Pepper and looking bored. She stopped, eyeing the gloom.
"Why is everyone acting like someone died?" Missy asked. "We won, didn't we?"
"We're working, Missy," George said, his voice lacking its usual bark. "We're trying to figure out how to stop a robot."
Missy plopped down on the floor next to Sheldon. She looked at the TV as the Lions ran another flawless, boring play.
"Ugh," Missy groaned. "It looks like Mr. Claps."
George blinked. "Who?"
"Mr. Claps," Missy said. "That stupid wind-up monkey Meemaw gave me for my birthday last year. The one with the cymbals."
I laughed. I remembered that thing. It was terrifying. You wound it up, and it banged cymbals together with perfect, rhythmic nightmares.
"That device was an auditory assault," Sheldon muttered.
"Exactly," Missy said. "It was so perfect. Clap. Clap. Clap. It drove me crazy. So I fixed it."
Sheldon paused. He looked at her. "You broke it."
"I fixed it," Missy corrected. "I stuck a pencil in the gears."
The room went dead silent.
Sheldon froze, his pen hovering over his paper. He looked at the TV. Then back at Missy.
"Repeat that," Sheldon ordered.
"I stuck a pencil in the gears," Missy shrugged. "It made a horrible grinding noise, and then its head fell off. It was awesome."
Sheldon turned to George. His eyes were wide.
"Disruption of the algorithm," Sheldon whispered.
George looked confused. "English, Sheldon."
"Dad," Sheldon said, his voice rising with excitement. "A machine relies on rhythm. Step A must lead to Step B at an exact interval. The Wing-T relies on the Quarterback turning his back to the defense for exactly 1.2 seconds. He is blind."
"Yeah?" George said.
"What happens if Step A is interrupted?" Sheldon asked. "Not stopped. Just... delayed. By a fraction of a second?"
"The timing breaks," George whispered. "The running back gets there too early. Or too late."
"And if the timing breaks," Sheldon said, pointing at the TV, "the cymbals do not clap. The head falls off."
George looked at the screen. He watched the Vernon QB turn his back to fake a handoff. It was a rhythm. One-Mississippi.
"We don't need to tackle them," George realized. "We need to jam the gears. We need a pencil."
He looked at me. A dangerous idea formed in his eyes.
"Georgie," Dad said. "How fast are you really?"
***
The Gamble
I stood up. "I'm 100 percent. Maybe faster."
"I need you on defense," George said.
"Defense?" I asked. "Dad, I'm the QB. If I get hurt..."
"I know," George cut me off. "It's insane. If this was a regular game, I'd never do it. But Georgie... look at our roster. Who is fast enough to hit that gap in under a second?"
I thought about it. Our safety was slow. Our linebackers were strong but heavy.
"Nobody," I admitted.
"Exactly," George said. "We don't have the athletes, son. We're a small school playing a machine. If we play them straight, we lose 21-0. We have to gamble."
He grabbed a throw pillow from the couch.
"I want you to play Safety on passing downs. But I don't want you to cover a soul. I want you to be the pencil."
He tossed me the pillow.
"When that ball is snapped, you don't read. You don't wait. You shoot the A-gap. You hit that QB before he even finishes his turn."
"A Safety blitz?" I asked. "If I miss, the tight end is wide open for a touchdown."
"Then don't miss," George said. He looked at Missy. "Missy, hike the socks."
Missy grabbed a rolled-up pair of Dad's gym socks from the laundry basket. "Hut!"
I didn't think. I exploded.
The "Mahomes Template" kicked in. The burst was violent. I crossed the living room in a blur.
George tried to turn his back to fake the handoff, but I was already on him.
Whump.
I buried the pillow into his chest before he could even reset his feet. George stumbled back into his recliner, laughing breathlessly.
"Fast," George panted, clutching the pillow. "That is terrifyingly fast."
Sheldon was already scribbling furiously on his notepad.
"If the disruption occurs within 0.8 seconds," Sheldon calculated, "the probability of a fumble or botched exchange increases by six hundred percent. The machine cannot recalibrate."
George looked at the family. Missy (the inspiration), Sheldon (the math), and me (the weapon).
"They're perfect, Georgie," Dad said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "But perfection is fragile. You break their rhythm... you break their heart."
I gripped the football. My ankle felt like steel.
"Let's go break some toys," I said.
[Quest Update: The State Path]
* Status: Final Strategy Locked.
* The Problem: Vernon is a Perfect Machine.
* The Solution: "The Pencil in the Gears" (The Safety Blitz).
* Family Code: "Mr. Claps" (The Wind-up Monkey).
* Georgie's Status: 100% (Playing Iron Man).